


Look at the stars, look how they shine for you

by thejourneyseemsendless



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Family Issues, Fluff and Humor, Jongin is a witch, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Pining, Romance, Secret Crush, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejourneyseemsendless/pseuds/thejourneyseemsendless
Summary: Jongin wants to give Chanyeol the stars. Things don't go exactly as planned.





	1. Prologue

> #### “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”   
>  ― Roald Dahl

 

This story begins with a boy sitting in his small apartment, working away well into the night, his face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window. His back aches from too many hours spent bent over the rough surface of his worktable, his hands tremble, tired and stiff, his eyes feel dry and burn every time he blinks, but he can’t stop, not yet, there’s still some work to do before he can go to bed.

He keeps filling small bags with dried herbs and flower petals, listing their properties in his head while he works. He is good at this, he thinks, if not at much else. Bluebell, red camellia, and cherry blossoms for a student who asked for help during her exams; cyclamen, daffodil, and sweet pea to soothe a broken heart. A few words to encourage the plants to do their work and the charms are ready. He’s finally done for the night.

He stretches his arms above his head, his spine crackling ominously, and sighs deeply. He’s debating whether to leave everything on the table to tidy up in the morning – moonlight can only reinforce his magic, after all, and he knows how much his spells need that –, when he hears a _ping_ coming from his computer signaling that a new email has reached his inbox. He’s tempted to ignore it and leave it for tomorrow, but then he remembers the pile of unpaid bills accumulating on his coffee table and the weird, scratching sounds coming from his air-conditioning every time he turns it on, and, reluctantly, decides to at least check the new order and prepare the ingredients on the table, ready to be assembled the next morning.

He reads the email twice, and then stands up, a little wobbly on his feet, crossing the room towards his herbs cabinet: tall, old, and very purple, it was a gift from his grandma, bless her soul. It would have probably clashed with the color scheme in any other house, but Jongin’s house is not an ordinary one, and bright colors abound in every corner: from the blue kitchen cabinets to the mismatched chairs around the white table, to the lime green couch, everything is bright and colorful, and _alive_ , and Jongin likes it just that way – although sometimes the patterned wallpaper is a bit too much, even for him.

On his way to the purple, wooden monstrosity, he checks on his goldfish, finding it seemingly engrossed in the news broadcasted by the muted television. A girl was murdered not far from his apartment complex. He sighs. Once he reaches the cupboard, the doors open with a squeak, reminding him that he really needs to oil the hinges. Rows upon rows of tidily stacked jars – each one clearly labeled in blue ink – greet him, while his hair brush against the drying bundles hanging from the top of the armoire. He rummages inside the cabinet for a while, the strong smell of dried herbs, plants, and flowers assaulting his nose and making him sneeze three times in a row. Sniffling, he piles everything he needs up in his arms and closes the doors with his foot, cautiously bringing everything to the table: chrysanthemum, crocus, honeysuckle, impatiens, and lily, to help conception. Satisfied, he yawns and looks at the clock above the television stand: almost midnight, time to call it a day.

Moving to the kitchen to grab himself a glass of water, he can’t help but drag his feet, too tired to put effort into such a mundane task as _walking_. The shuffling sound that his sock-covered feet make across the wooden floor is almost soothing, reminding him of lazy Sunday afternoons spent with his sisters at his grandma’s house while his parents were away at some conference or another, before she came to live with them. He smiles, his heart lurching in his chest: after his grandma passed away, things have never been the same for his family.

Sighing, he moves closer to his bedroom door, when he hears the telltale sound of his neighbor’s door opening and closing again, the jingling of his keys, and his steps going down the corridor towards the stairs – the elevator has been broken since Jongin moved into this apartment, about a year ago now, and there’s no hope of getting it fixed any time soon. Jongin would do it himself, hadn’t his magic been so… volatile, and fickle, and _petty_.

 _You’re a bit late today_ , he thinks, before rushing to his bedroom’s window, the water sloshing uncontrollably inside its glass, leaving a pattern of droplets on the floor. Opening the curtains, he gets as close to the glass as he can without outright opening the window and waits for his neighbor to come out the front door of their building. He has to wait just a few seconds before a messy mop of dark hair comes under the flickering light of the only unbroken lamppost lighting the street. The man quickly crosses the road, his hands moving up and down his arms trying to warm himself up in the cold November night. _You should have worn something warmer_ , Jongin thinks, furrowing his brow. _You’re gonna catch a cold_.

His neighbor has reached his car by now, a small, white, rusty, old thing that Jongin thinks would be more useful sold as scraps. It has left its owner without transportation too many times to count, despite Jongin trying time and time again to keep it - literally - together with magic.

After a few tries, the car starts, sputtering its way across the parking lot and into the open road.

 “Have a good day at work, Chanyeol,” Jongin whispers, his breath leaving a mark of condensation on the window.  

 

Jongin doesn’t go outside much. He has no reason to, really, apart from his once-a-week trips to the grocery store around the corner. Everything he needs to work is at home, and it’s not like he has a lot of friends to spend time with: nowadays he considers himself lucky if he gets to see Kyungsoo once a month, with him being always terribly busy. He’s happy for him, of course he is, Kyungsoo is his oldest, dearest friend, and seeing him be this successful fills him with pride. And, well, his success didn’t exactly come as unexpected: out of the two of them, Kyungsoo had always been the one people would bet on doing amazingly in life – even Jongin’s grandma had had a soft spot for him, and his grandma had never judged someone wrong in her life (she claimed it was because of her third eye. Jongin, on the other hand, believes it was just due to her old age: she had met enough people in her life to be able to judge them at a glance. Jongin misses her a lot).

His home is silent; he’s used to leaving the television on while he works, just so he can have some background noises, and so that Winston, his fish, is kept entertained. It’s hard to get used to living alone when you have spent the first twenty years of your life in a house filled with two parents, a grandma, two sisters, three dogs, and a pet lizard.

The apartment building is silent too, especially during the day, when his neighbors are at work or at school. The building empties of everyone apart from Jongin, who spends his days bent at his worktable, and Chanyeol, who comes home when everyone else leaves and goes outside when everyone else is asleep. For this reason the first few days after moving in Jongin thought that the apartment across from his was empty and that the old couple who liked to scream at each other for no reason were the only people living on his floor.

He met Chanyeol on a Saturday, coming back from a run at the grocery store, his hands aching from the weight of the shopping bags he was carrying (sadly, he hadn’t even bought that many snacks, his mom would have been proud). He was crossing the parking lot, sweating from the scorching sun hitting his back, when he heard a loud ripping noise and, before he knew it, all the stuff he had put in one of the bags was spilled on the ground all around him. He sighed loudly and closed his eyes, trying to control his tears; that week had been just horrible and he couldn’t wait for it to be over: he had failed for the third time the exam to become a licensed witch, he had lost his favorite book moving from his parents’ house to his new apartment, and his oldest sister had decided to get mad at him because, apparently, “he wasn’t trying hard enough”. And now that stupid bag decided to break on him. Typical.

He kneeled on the ground, trying to gather in his arms everything he had spilled, when a shadow sheltered him from the sun and a deep voice asked him if he needed any help. Glancing up from his bruised tomatoes, he saw a guy moving to pick up the object nearest to him. Embarrassingly enough, it was a box of prepackaged cakes with a cartoon version of the Avengers on it, clearly meant for children. It came with cute stickers, sue him.

It was an innocent thing, really, but, maybe, he would have liked that not to be the first thing a hot guy knew about him. And the guy _was_ hot: tall – taller than Jongin, even! -, with great hair and beautiful, sparkling eyes.

He took a look at the box in his hands, and just like that the biggest smile Jongin had ever seen bloomed on his face.

“I eat these, too! But the best part are the stickers! I’ve almost collected them all, but I can’t find the Wasp, I’ve heard it’s pretty rare…” He went on talking about his sticker collection, about Iron Man being his favorite superhero, and, _oh, had Jongin seen the last Marvel movie? He hadn’t had the time to yet, so, please, no spoilers!,_ and while he did that he helped him pick up everything he had spilled, Jongin following his actions almost unconsciously, too distracted by the onslaught of words this strange man was attacking him with.

Before he knew it, they were inside his building, up the stairs, and in front of Jongin’s door. Before he knew it, in the few steps they had taken together from the sunny parking lot to his front door, Jongin had fallen in love.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading! This is my new fic, and once again I have to thank my friend M for the support and my amazing beta for all the help she gives me! 
> 
> The title comes from the song Yellow by Coldplay.
> 
> This story is loosely based on the tv show Sabrina, The Teenage Witch - the late 90s, early 00s version.


	2. Chapter One

On that Thursday Jongin wakes up at 8 like he does every morning. Blinking away the last traces of sleep, he automatically turns his head towards the window at his left: he likes to leave the curtains a little bit open, so that sunlight can gently filter inside his room; so that, as soon as he wakes up, he can observe the blue and yellow little birds jumping up and down the branches of the old cherry tree just outside his window. That tree is the only pretty thing Jongin could find in the whole neighborhood when he came to look at the apartment and also the main reason why he decided, in the end, to rent it. Today the light is scarce, though, and the sky doesn’t promise anything good: dark and gloomy, the clouds are fat with rain. Even the little birds look to be moping, a couple of them are huddled together on the branch closest to his window, their feathers all ruffled, trying to get some shelter from the cold. They are the cutest little things Jongin has ever seen.

Unlike them, Jongin is comfy, and warm, and safe, cocooned inside his soft blankets like a small, furry creature inside its lair. The analogy makes him smile: oh, what he wouldn’t give to be a small, furry creature himself! Maybe a bunny, or a squirrel, so he could jump up and down the old cherry tree together with those round, little birds he loves so much. He has started to leave them food on the windowsill, once the cold came in: he couldn’t bear the thought of them going hungry. He wants them to be happy, with their little tummies full, so they can keep singing for him their good mornings.

He stretches, yawns, and sits up, bleary-eyed. He blindly reaches out his hand, barely avoiding overturning the half-full glass of water he put on the nightstand the night before, and grabs the journal and pencil he keeps there, opening the former and quickly scribbling down what he remembers of the dreams he had last night. He blushes a bit recalling them, and then giggles to himself, butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach. He lets himself fall back down on the mattress, arms outstretched, and sighs happily, closing his eyes to try and grasp the few remaining images of last night’s dreams, now as wispy as smoke. He was walking in a park - or was it a forest? -, sunshine on his face, flowers at his feet, his heart feeling warm and content and _full_ , and his hand was full too, his fingers intertwined to bigger, more calloused, and so, so warm ones.

He kicks his legs and squeals a bit, giddy with joy. It’s the third time this week he has dreamed of Chanyeol, and, while some – i.e. Kyungsoo - might call it an obsession, to Jongin these dreams are like a breath of fresh air in an otherwise terribly dull life. Also, dreams are important. If you are lucky enough, they might even show you the future.

And Jongin has decided to believe in them.

 

Stepping outside his room, he greets his small goldfish good morning, scratches his tummy, and moves to the kitchen to prepare himself some breakfast. Opening the fridge, it soon becomes apparent his breakfast options are pretty scarce: there are eggs… eggs… and more eggs. He really needs to go shopping. An omelet it is, then.

He wiggles his butt to the rhythmic sound the whisk makes hitting the glass bowl, and when the eggs are all smooth and frothy he pours them inside the sizzling pan, throwing in some cheese and tomato slices. Spatula in hand, he waits for the eggs to cook, his eyes never straining too far from the pan, mindful of a couple of unfortunate mishaps he experienced in the past. Cooking is _hard_ , especially when you are twenty years old and you have lived off on your mom’s cooking all your life – until you moved into your own apartment, that is. He has gotten a little bit better now, good enough not to starve, at least, but he is still wary of open flames and scalding oil. Kyungsoo was kind enough to write down in a notepad a few of his easier recipes, worried out of his mind that, if left to his own devices, Jongin would end up in the hospital with food-poisoning or nasty third-degree burns. To Jongin’s opinion, his friend tends to over-react a bit too much. Sure, he once managed to burn a pot of pasta, but he likes to consider that as an isolated accident. Since then, he has never burnt any more pots. Pans don’t count.

After some attentive spatula work, the omelet is ready, its scent spreading all over the small apartment. He turns off the stove, places his omelet on a plate, and he is set for breakfast. Plate in hand, he moves towards his pastel green chair – his favorite one, for it has the best view out of the window above the kitchen sink -, places the food on the table, and he is about to sit down and enjoy his meal when he hears a knock on the door. Frowning, and a little annoyed, he wonders who it could be at this hour of the morning; the rent isn’t due for another two weeks, and Kyungsoo is on a work trip to Barbados, the lucky bastard.

Puzzled, he throws the front door open, instantly regretting all his life choices.

“Hey, Jongin!”

There are many things he could have done to prevent this situation from taking place: he could have checked through the peephole to know who was at the door, he could have showered and dressed before sitting down for breakfast, he could have, at the very least, combed his hair. Anyone would have probably done any of these things before opening the door to their crush, but not Kim Jongin, the unluckiest boy in the world. He hasn’t even brushed his teeth yet!

“Chanyeol! Hi!” he half-yells, already panicking inside, trying to surreptitiously hide behind the open door. “What are you doing here?”

 _My mustache_ , he suddenly remembers, before slapping his hand against the lower part of his face. _Oh god, why, why, why_ today _of all days_ , he whines. He’s wearing his oldest, comfiest hoodie, bright yellow and with a drunk unicorn printed on the front, which also happens to have a few suspicious stains right below the collar; his sweatpants, too, have seen better days, worn as they are at the knees. To top it all off, the white socks he is wearing are full of holes, his toes cheerfully peeking out from them.

Too busy dying of embarrassment, he doesn’t notice the way Chanyeol’s smile dims at his words.

“Ah… I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, Jongin,” he says, running his hand through his hair. _He must have just come back from work_ , Jongin thinks, cooing internally at how cute and soft and warm and sleepy he looks. He is spacing out, he can feel it. _Focus, Jongin, don’t just look at his… plump… lips… No! Focus! He is speaking to you! For god’s sake, Jongin!_

“-in? Jongin?”

“Yes?”

Now Chanyeol has a perplexed expression on his face, probably wondering why he thought it a good idea to knock on Jongin’s door before noon.

“I was wondering if you have some rice you can spare? I would go to the grocery store, but it’s still closed at this hour and,” he sighs, “to be honest I’m so tired that all I want is to eat something and go to bed,” he concludes, smiling sheepishly.

“Oh! Of course!” Jongin says, happy to be able to help him. He moves from the door, eager to fulfill his request, but then he remembers. Turning back towards Chanyeol, he says tentatively: “Just… just wait here, please? I will be back in a moment.” At Chanyeol’s nod, he scuttles inside, his sock-clad feet sliding on the linoleum floor. Back in the kitchen, his eyes fall on the omelet he left on the table, its aroma still permeating the room. It hits him, then: Chanyeol could probably scent it from the front door. How rude he must think Jongin is, not inviting him in for breakfast after he told him how tired he is from work; how rude to leave him on the door, not even inviting him inside, like a stranger. It is always like this between Chanyeol and him, Jongin realizes. They take one step forward and three steps back in a never-ending dance of awkwardness and misery – at least, on Jongin’s part.

Fighting the urge to cry, Jongin opens the cabinet he stores his bags of rice in and scoops up a generous amount into the first clean bowl he can find. His eyes fall on the landscape outside the kitchen window: smooth hills dotted here and there by tall cypresses, a farmhouse barely visible in the distance, shrouded by a thick veil of fog. It seems like even in Tuscany the weather reflects Jongin’s mood.

He goes back towards the front door, finding Chanyeol where he left him, still waiting on the doormat - it says _Welcome!_ in a pretty, flowing font, a snoozing black cat perched on the last letter. Jongin found it cute and bought it on a whim.

“Here,” he says, passing the bowl to Chanyeol. He tries to smile, but the lump in his throat is hard to swallow, and he is sure what he comes up with is more of an ugly grimace.

“Thank you,” Chanyeol says, and his smile, too, seems a bit forced. “And sorry, again.”

Jongin is ready to close the door and go cry in his pillow, but Chanyeol is hesitating on the doorstep, his eyes darting back and forth across the planes of Jongin’s face as if taking him in. Jongin is frozen against the door, his hand on the doorknob, his eyes fixed on Chanyeol: he looks tired, waxy, but his eyes shine as brightly as the first time he and Jongin met.

Then Chanyeol timidly raises his hand and runs his fingers through Jongin’s hair in a light caress that is over before Jongin can truly realize what is going on. “I like the new color, it suits you,” Chanyeol says, and before Jongin can react, he finds himself alone on the threshold.

 

Closing the door behind him, Jongin leans on it, hitting his head a couple of times against the dark surface. “You are terrible, Jongin,” he says out loud. “Just… fucking terrible. Useless! Useless, useless, useless!” He kicks the door in frustration, forgetting he is not wearing any shoes. “Fuck!” he howls, jumping up and down on his uninjured foot. On the verge of tears – no one will ever know if he is crying in pain or resentment towards his stupid self -, he hops towards his lumpy green couch, almost tripping on the one overturned corner of his threadbare carpet before he manages to reach it and throws himself on it. Bringing his injured foot upon his knee, he starts massaging it while rethinking of the exchange he just had with Chanyeol, examining it from every angle.

Good stuff:

  * Chanyeol caressed his hair (!!!). He also looked cute. Very cute. The cutest.



Bad stuff:

  * Now Chanyeol probably thinks Jongin is rude and therefore he will do his utmost to avoid him like the plague. Who likes a rude neighbor? No one, that’s whom. And Chanyeol is the epitome of kindness, he must particularly despise rude people! Jongin bets he helps old ladies to cross the street and feeds strays in his spare time, that’s why he always looks so tired.



He sighs, defeated, head on the backrest. Nothing to do about it now. He has to endure this predicament. There is no use in crying over spilled milk. Chanyeol will probably forget about today, right? He nods to himself, a forced grin blooming on his face. Right. He will.

“Oh, who am I kidding?!” he yells, before trying to suffocate himself with one of his embroidered pillows. He keeps screaming into the scratchy fabric until he has to come up for air. Hair like a bird’s nest, face red from all the scratching that just took place, Jongin is now moping. Pouting, even. Then his eyes fall on the goldfish that is looking at him through the glass of its tank. Jongin had decorated it very prettily: it is equipped with a castle, a palm tree, multicolored sand, a few rocks, and the best water filtering system he could find on the market.

“Winston,” he whines, hugging the same pillow he tried to suffocate himself with just a few minutes ago. “Winston, I just want a boyfriend, is that too much to ask? I want a boy who will love me! A boy who would let me love him! I would be an amazing boyfriend, I just know it! I would cook for him, and kiss him all the time, and cuddle with him on the couch. And I give amazing hugs, even Kyungsoo can’t resist them.” His eyes glaze over a bit, lost in the romantic fantasies his brain is coming up with. “And- and I’d really like that boy to be Chanyeol!” A besotted smile shows up on his face. “He is so wonderful, Winston. He is kind, and warm-hearted, and so, so pretty, and I’m so, so stupid over him. Every time I see him it’s like my brain stops functioning and I turn into a fumbling idiot.”

He sighs and scratches his nose. “It would have been so nice to invite him in, to cook him something– don’t give me that look, fish, I _can_ cook easy stuff pretty well now, even if you don’t believe me –, and then, and then… He would have been so grateful for the tasty meal that he would have kissed me on the spot!” He stands up, pillow hurled on the ground in his enthusiasm. “And it would have been awkward at first, the two of us blushing messes, but then, then… our eyes would have met, and we’d start kissing again!” he shrieks, victorious.

Just then, his eyes fall on the potted mandrake plants he keeps on the shelves above the tv stand, on the orbiting fairy lights he uses to make the place more lively, on the mess of herbs and dried flowers on his worktable, on the small copper cauldron gathering cobwebs in a corner, on the crystals scattered all over the place, on the impossible view he enjoys from his impossible window, placed right where the wall he shares with his neighbors’ apartment should be… and everything comes crashing down all over his poor, battered heart.

It’s with a sad look on his face that he says, “I would have loved to let him in, but how would I explain all this…” his arms move in a sweeping gesture to encompass his whole house, “to him, Winston?”

He sits back down on the couch, lost in thought. When he moved into his new apartment, he was so excited at the idea of having his own home, far from the judging eyes of his parents, that he spent several days working his ass off to set up a series of simple enchantments to make it a little cozier. But the thing is, those spells are of a particular kind, tied to his home magic, and they can be meddled with only by who set them up in the first place. This means that he can’t ask Kyungsoo to get rid of them, and Jongin isn’t eager to do it himself, as afraid as he is of his magic acting up and blowing up the building.

The frustration he has to live with daily is so oppressive that sometimes he wishes he was born without magic at all, just like his dad. It would have saved him a lot of trouble, he reasons. And to think that his grandma was so happy when she found out he had the _spark_. The first male in seven generations of female witches! His family even threw a party in his honor, unaware of what joke the universe would play on him.

Sighing, he gets up and takes the box of fish food he keeps near Winston’s tank to serve him some breakfast. At least one of them gets to eat that morning. “I really like talking to you, Winston, but sometimes I wish you could talk back.” He watches the flecks of dried food float in the air before hitting the water surface. “But, of course, luck would have it that I’d be the only witch in the world to get a familiar who lives in a tank.” Winston blows him a few bubbles. Jongin chooses to interpret it as “I wish I was able to talk to you too”. Most likely, it was something along the lines of “you dumb idiot, you should be thankful I can’t talk or get outside this glorified jar or I would be tearing you a new one right now.”

Too worn out by the rollercoaster of emotions he has just gone through, his stomach has closed completely so he decides to leave the omelet on the table to be dealt with later. Right now, what he needs is a shower. And a good cry. Preferably while in the shower, so that he can pretend his tears are just water.

Once inside the small bathroom, he stands in front of the sink, hand reaching out to grab his toothbrush and toothpaste from the ceramic cup he keeps them in. Blearily, he looks at his reflection in the mirror, expecting to see bitten lips and blood-shot eyes, but nothing prepared him for what he sees instead: the surprise is such that it makes him drop into the white sink the items he holds in hand. Eyes wide-open in shock, he shakily raises his hand to his hair, grabbing tufts of it and bringing them closer to his eyes. _What the hell_ , he thinks, _this must be a joke_. He turns on the light above the mirror, hoping in a different result, but, alas, the color doesn’t change, nor does it seem to be a trick of the light: his hair has, in the span of one night, inexplicably turned the color of cherry blossoms.

“WHY THE HELL IS MY HAIR PINK?!”

His screech can be heard all the way into Chanyeol’s apartment.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who read, commented and left kudos on this fic, knowing that you're enjoying this silly, little story makes me happy.
> 
> If you want to talk about our boys, about this story, if you have any questions, or if just want to be friends, you can find me on twitter at [awjonginnie](https://twitter.com/awjonginnie)♥


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I'm so sorry for the long wait, but life got in the way! I hope you'll like this chapter, and see you at the end!

“Why is your hair pink?”

Jongin is sitting cross-legged on his couch, a bucket of fried chicken placed on the coffee table in front of him and a few beer cans scattered on the ground, feeling terribly sorry for himself.

After moping around his apartment all day, he decided to call his favorite chicken place and have the biggest bucket of fried chicken on the menu delivered to his apartment. He told himself that the situation was dire enough he deserved to end the day stuffing himself with fried goodness.

He really loves chicken. He’s also pretty buzzed.

He burps.

He grabs a particularly juicy chicken wing, dabs it into the small container of barbecue sauce and stares at it wondering if he’d be able to fit it all into his mouth without choking. “Do you think I can fit all this in my mouth?” he asks, eyes darting from the meat in his hand to the computer screen.

Kyungsoo sighs, the judging look that Jongin knows is on his face distorted by the shitty quality of his laptop. “I wouldn’t try it, Jongin.”

Jongin nods, satisfied. Better listen to Kyungsoo. He starts nibbling on the wing, its juice trickling down his wrist and staining his yellow hoodie. He can also feel it all around his mouth. His chin feels itchy. He doesn’t like feeling itchy. He frowns.

It’s with a disgusted expression on his face that Kyungsoo suggests that he grabs some napkins to clean himself up with before he completely ruins his clothes. Once again, Jongin follows his friend’s advice, his brain wired to do so without much questioning after so many years together. Kyungsoo has always been the more level-headed out of the two of them and has saved Jongin’s ass in innumerable occasions.

“Kyungsoo!” he yells, way louder than necessary. “Do you remember the time when I snuck into old Kim Jooho’s garden to steal his peaches and his evil dog was there and started chasing me and I had to climb on a tree to save myself and then you had to get me out of there before my parents found out?” he asks, speaking so quickly and without a pause that bits of chicken get sprayed everywhere. At the time, Kyungsoo’s solution had been to coax the branch Jongin was perched on to grow just enough to bring him over the garden’s wall and drop him unceremoniously on the ground.

Kyungsoo sighs really loudly. He should be used to Jongin’s antics by now, but a drunk Jongin is a creature almost as unpredictable as it is rare. “Jongin, is there a reason in all of this? It’s six in the morning where I am, I just woke up and I have a long workday ahead, could you please cut to the point?” He eyes the messy mop of hair on his friend’s head. “Also, is there a reason why your hair is pink or is this another case of ‘my magic does what it wants and I just go with it?”

Jongin pouts. “Why are you being so mean to me?” he asks, still munching on his wing. _Delicious_.

“Jongin…”

“I woke up like this.” He shrugs. “My hair must miss my cherry flowers.”

“Your… hair. Your _hair_ misses your cherry flowers. Of course, it makes sense,” Kyungsoo says, shaking his head and smiling fondly.

“Right?! That’s what I thought too!” Jongin beams. He can always count on Kyungsoo to understand him. He loves him a lot. Not as much as he loves Chanyeol, though. He tells him just that.

“Yeah, I suspected it, but thank you for telling me anyway. I still hoped one day we would elope and get married in Jeju but I guess I should start looking for a different life partner.”

“…you’re being sarcastic, right?”

“Right.”

“Oh, thank God. With all respect, Kyungsoo,” he hiccups, “I don’t like you that way.”

“Glad we cleared that up. Now, do you want to tell me why you’re getting drunk on cheap beer on a Thursday evening or do I have to pry it out of you?”

At Jongin’s hesitation, Kyungsoo’s gaze softens, his voice loses its harshness, now aimed at soothing his friend’s nervousness. “Is this about Chanyeol again?”

“Maybe…”

“What happened?”

In all honesty, Jongin has been waiting for this question. It’s the reason why he called Kyungsoo, after all. Yes, he _did_ actually forget about the time difference between Korea and Barbados so he might have woken Kyungsoo up a little bit earlier than his alarm was set to go off, but what’s a bit of lost sleep among friends? Especially when one of the above-mentioned friends is going through an emergency! 

So, settling down more comfortably on his couch, Jongin tells him everything - he has never kept any secrets from Kyungsoo, who, at this point, probably knows him better than he knows himself. He has been away from home for a few weeks now and Jongin has never missed him as much as he does now, looking at him through the flickering screen of an ancient computer.

Kyungsoo listens attentively, humming here and there at the right time, smiling a bit at Jongin’s overdramatic - but so dear to his heart - way of telling stories, full of big hand gestures and earnest facial expressions, heightened by his less-than-sober state.

Once Jongin is done recalling what happened that morning he looks to Kyungsoo expectantly, eager to hear what he thinks about the matter. What he doesn’t expect is to hear Kyungsoo giggling into his fist, trying in vain to muffle his laughter behind the cover of his hand.

“Kyungsoo!” Jongin shrieks, appalled. Is his non-existent romantic life that funny?

Kyungsoo only laughs harder. “Oh, I haven’t laughed so hard in months,” he chortles.

“Glad I could be helpful, then,” Jongin retorts, rolling his eyes. He reaches for another chicken wing. “Do tell me when you’re done laughing about my misfortune, I’ll just wait here, with my heart _broken, shattered, reduced to a relic—"_

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, but you have to agree with me that this whole situation is pretty funny.” Kyungsoo wipes from his face a few tears that had fallen in hilarity. Taking a deep breath, he finally calms down and is able to look his friend in the face without laughing too much.

“I think you’re making a tragedy out of this when there’s really no need,” he says, frowning right after. “Don’t roll your eyes and listen to me!”

“ _Don’t roll your eyes and listen to me_ ,” Jongin mutters, parroting him.

“Do you want my opinion or not? If not, I can go, you know.”

At Jongin’s wide-eyed stare and meek nod, he resumes talking. “I’ve never met Chanyeol, right? But we’re gonna fix that as soon as possible, I really want to meet him. Anyway, from what you’ve told me I think there is a good chance – a _very_ good chance, Jongin - that he likes you too. Think about it, think about all the little encounters you’ve had lately; to me, it seems like he’s crushing on you just as badly as you’re crushing on him.”

Kyungsoo’s image and voice are filled with static now, his face hardly visible, the old computer barely supporting the magic Jongin’s sister had soaked it with six years ago – she wanted to be able to have free access to Wi-Fi anywhere she went, but the trick didn’t really work, the only thing it managed to do was to irreparably ruin her computer and give her a headache when their mother found out and harshly scolded her. She gave it away to Jongin after she bought a new one with her first paycheck. Jongin should get up and give it a good thump – the way he resolves most of his ‘technology clashing with magic’ problems nowadays – but the frizzling sounds seem to echo inside Jongin’s mind, distracting him together with Kyungsoo’s words: Chanyeol liking him? No way. Unless…

“Do you really think so?” Jongin feels completely sobered up, the weak beer he has been drinking washed away by too many chicken wings and the thoughts his friend’s words have summoned.

“Does it really seem so improbable to you?”

Jongin bites his lips, gaze fixed on his coffee table without really seeing it: he thinks back at all the times Chanyeol and he have interacted, at all the awkwardness on his part, at his struggles to sound smooth and experienced and like someone who actually talks to people on a regular basis, and not as the guy whose main social interactions are the ones he has with his goldfish. And Chanyeol… Chanyeol has always been kind to him, friendly and warm, but that’s just his personality, isn’t it? That’s just the kind of person he is. There’s no way he _likes_ him.

He tells Kyungsoo just that.

Kyungsoo sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t force you to look at things from another perspective, and I know just how stubborn you can be when you think you’re right, so I’m not gonna say anything more on the matter apart from this: don’t put yourself down because, for some reason, you think you’re not good enough, Jongin. Your heart is in the right place, and I know you do your best to help Chanyeol in his everyday life, and just how much you wish you could do more. But what I’m trying to say is this: do you really think that what he needs the most in his life is someone who takes care of his little inconveniences – plants he forgets to water, a car that refuses to start – while staying out of sight, or someone that will be beside him as a friend – as more than that?”

Jongin is now avoiding his gaze, his eyes fixed on his lap, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Kyungsoo…”

“Take that chance, Jongin. What’s the worst that could happen?”

_He could stop talking to me. He could start avoiding me, and I would live in the everlasting embarrassment of having been so stupid to confess to someone way out of my league._

“Listen, I have to go now, but I’ll be back home in a few days.” He gives Jongin an encouraging smile. “I’ll bake you our chocolate cookies then, alright? And we’ll talk a bit more, you know I’ve never liked having important conversations via PC.” He gets closer to his computer’s camera and Jongin can see his face more clearly now: he instantly regrets having woken him up before his alarm. Kyungsoo looks tired, the dark circles under his eyes made more prominent by the screen’s light reflecting on his face. He has always been too good to him, and Jongin needs to remember that they’re grown-ups now, even if sometimes he doesn’t feel like one. But Kyungsoo has a life outside the bubble of their friendship, a job to attend to; he’s not wasting away closed off in his apartment, waiting – hoping – for something to change, for life to finally give him a chance too.

Jongin nods and puts on a smile for his friend’s sake. “Alright. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“I’ll come and see you as soon as I get back, I promise.”

Jongin really doesn’t deserve him. “Bye, Kyungsoo.”

“Bye, Jongin.” And with that he’s gone, a black screen the only thing left behind.  

“You better bake me a lot of cookies,” Jongin sighs. “I’m gonna need them.”

He stands up, a can of beer rolling off the couch and onto the floor, the sound muffled by the threadbare rug at Jongin’s feet. He might as well start cleaning up a bit, he thinks, now that he doesn’t feel like eating or drinking anymore. He piles the chicken bucket up in his arms before carrying it to the kitchen: there are still a few wings left inside so he puts it in the fridge to be dealt with the next day. The beer cans go into the recycling bin, the unused cutlery that he had taken with him in a vain attempt to eat in a more civilized manner back in the drawer; he opens it with a bit of a struggle and then drops the items on top of his messily arranged collection of kitchen utensils.

He’s about to absent-mindedly close the drawer back again, his mind preoccupied with what Kyungsoo told him, when his eyes fall upon a Hello Kitty spatula Kyungsoo had jokingly bought for him last year to celebrate his new apartment. He smiles while taking it out. The two of them ended up using it together to bake the first batch of cookies ever made in the new house. It had been a mess, but one Jongin had gladly cleaned up afterward.

He’s missing his friend more and more these days, the loneliness and frustration he feels exacerbated by Kyungsoo’s absence.  

He has a really clear memory of the first time he met his friend: he remembers being so nervous at the thought of going to school for the first time together with other little witches, of meeting new people, of possibly losing control of his magic in front of everyone and being made fun of for it. He was six, he should have already been able to perform a few simple spells but all he managed to do was setting fire to his sisters’ hair and turning his dog blue. Little Monggu had never been the same since then.

His parents had tried to reassure him telling him that school was important just for that very reason: his teachers would teach him all he needed to know to control his magic and he would finally be able to perform his first spells.

Despite the reassurances, he entered the courtyard of his new school with his small hand clutching to his mother’s for dear life, his little heart beating wildly in his chest, his eyes taking in for the first time the place and the people he would spend his days with from that moment on. Trembling like a leaf, he watched the older kids walking confidently inside the building, warmly welcomed by a few teachers. But there were also kids that felt just as terrified as him, some of them crying in their parents’ arms and begging them to take them back home. Swallowing, he risked a glance to his mother’s face, wondering if crying would convince her to forget about this stupid school business and just take him home to play with his puzzles, but he found her already looking down at him, an encouraging smile on her face.

_“Do you see, Jongin, how many kids are here? You’re going to make friends in no time, sweetheart!”_ she said, tugging him up the front steps of the building. _“Now, always listen to what Ms. Choi tells you, she’s really nice, you’ll see. I’ve put a box of chocolate cookies in your bag, the kind you like so much, so that you can share them with your schoolmates.”_

The moments after she left him in the hands of his new teacher are foggy, too many years have passed since then, but the instant he saw for the first time the boy who would become his best friend is etched in his mind. It was during recess, the kids had been encouraged by their teachers to enjoy the last few days of warm weather in the schoolyard, playing and eating their snacks together. Jongin had meekly followed the others, the Tupperware box full of cookies held protectively against his chest. Looking around the yard, he saw everyone already coupled up, playing or eating, so busy making new friends they never noticed him watching them with his eyes wide open in fright. Swallowing thickly, already on the brink of tears, Jongin ran back to his classroom, easily identified by the cheerful paper ladybugs glued on the door, his little feet pitapatting on the polished floor.

Panting, he settled himself back at his desk, his little heart heavy with sadness: his mother had given him so many cookies but he had no one to share them with. With a wobbling lip, he opened the box with a loud _clack_ and took out one cookie, its warm aroma reminding him of home. Tears now spilling on his chubby cheeks, he took the first bite, furiously munching on his snack, the sweet flavor of the milk chocolate filling his mouth mixed with the salty one of his snot and tears.

He was already on his third cookie when he heard someone coming closer to the classroom, their steps light and quick. Jongin tried to clean himself up by running his arm against his face, but the resulting mess was probably even worse than the one he had started with.

Sniffling, he warily looked up at the newcomer: it was a kid his age, maybe slightly taller than Jongin, with huge eyes and thick-rimmed glasses, a scratch just above his left eyebrow.

_“Hi,”_ Jongin said, shyly. The other boy was staring at him with an inscrutable look on his face: he was the most serious child Jongin had ever seen. At the other boy’s silence, Jongin was back on the verge of tears. Lowering his gaze, he started fidgeting with his t-shirt, the one he had personally picked that morning because it was bright and cheerful and his father had said it looked amazing on him. But maybe his father had really weird taste and the t-shirt was so ugly all the other kids hated it and that was why they didn’t want to be his friends. Glaring down at the offending material, he didn’t notice that the other kid had moved closer and was now standing in front of Jongin’s desk.

_“If you give me one of your cookies, I’ll let you play with my dinosaurs.”_

Raising his head, Jongin saw the other kid holding out a transparent backpack full of dinosaur toys. _“Is that a T-Rex?”_ he asked suspiciously.

_“Yes, that’s Rexie. He’s my favorite but I’ll let you borrow him for two cookies,”_ the boy said, holding up two pudgy fingers.

Furrowing his brow, Jongin pondered for a few seconds, then came to a decision.

_“Okay!”_ He beamed, happy to have found someone to play with. _“Sit here with me, my name is Jongin!”_

_“I’m Kyungsoo!”_ His heart-shaped smile was missing two front teeth. Jongin found it very cute.

Since that day they have been the best of friends.

 

A few years after that first encounter, Kyungsoo confessed to Jongin that he, too, had been really nervous at the thought of starting school: due to his poor health, his parents had chosen to keep him at home one year longer instead of sending him to school together with the other kids his age, and had discarded the idea of homeschooling him only under his stubborn insistence.

He had been so eager to make friends, to play with other kids, that his mother had to stop him before he brought all his toys to school; in the end, they had agreed on his bag of plastic dinosaurs, his most prized possession.

He had been really hurt when all the other kids seemed to already have friends and no one was interested in his toys. So he had gone back to the classroom and there he had found Jongin, munching his way through a box of cookies.  

Since then, chocolate cookies have become their shared comfort food.

Jongin associates them with some of the most precious moments he has shared with his best friend, but to some of the saddest ones too: the day his dog ran away, the days after his grandmother’s death, the first time he failed the exam to become a licensed witch. Kyungsoo has always been there by his side when everything else collapsed around him.

He smiles, remembering when Kyungsoo baked him those cookies for the first time without asking either of their mothers for help. He appeared at Jongin’s house a couple of hours after Jongin had called him in tears, babbling about hating his parents and his magic and saying things like _‘why do I have to feel so much pain, Kyungsoo?’_. He was a tad overdramatic, even as an eleven-year-old. But, to his defense, that day he felt like his world was crumbling down and everything he knew and loved was about to disappear: his parents had decided – after his umpteenth academic failure due to his magic refusing to work properly - to pull him out of his old school and enroll him in a non-magical one.

In a child’s mind, it felt like the world was ending. Leaving his old school meant also leaving Kyungsoo behind and to Jongin that was just unacceptable. He didn’t care much about the rest of his class, he had never really felt accepted there, he was too different, too _broken_ to fit in, but what would he do without his best friend by his side? He was a shy boy, and the idea of having to talk, alone, to new people, to try and make new friends scared him to death. He didn’t know what to expect from a new school, from new classmates, from new teachers. Would they hate him? Would he be the odd one once again?

He had broken down crying, the kind of ugly crying that smears your face with snot and fat tears, the kind of ugly crying with sobs that feel like they’re tearing your throat apart. His parents had tried to reason with him, to comfort him in their own, awkward way, but their words were worth nothing to Jongin, not after what they had done without asking him first. He had felt betrayed, hurt, alone. And when he felt alone, when nothing seemed to be able to comfort him, there was only one thing left to do, and that was calling Kyungsoo.

He had run back to his room, his TV still broadcasting the cartoons he had been watching when his parents had called him over in the kitchen, and threw himself upon his bed, holding in his right hand the cordless phone he had snatched on the way. He had dialed Kyungsoo’s number – which he had committed to memory years ago -, begging his friend to come over. Kyungsoo had promised him he would come as soon as he could, but the two hours Jongin had to actually wait for him seemed like the longest hours he had ever lived.

When, at last, the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of his friend, Jongin had long since cried all his tears and was now moping on the floor surrounded by an army of plushies. There could never be enough plushies in his opinion.   

_“Jongin?”_ Jongin heard Kyungsoo knock hesitantly at his door, his voice muffled by the heavy wooden panel.

_“Come in.”_

As soon as Jongin’s gaze fell on his best friend, tears gathered once again at the corners of his eyes and spilled as soon as Kyungsoo hurried to him and hugged him tightly, letting him cry on his small shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a while, Jongin too busy sobbing, Kyungsoo too busy patting his back in the vain attempt to get him to calm down long enough to at least explain to him what had caused his sadness. After a long while, Jongin stopped crying, his face still burrowed in his best friend’s neck. After some cajoling, Kyungsoo managed to make him sit upright and to let him wipe his face clean of snot and tears with the handkerchief he always brought in his pocket.

_“Jonginnie, do you feel better now?”_

_“I don’t know,”_ Jongin sniffled. He reached out his hand and grabbed the nearest plushie he could find, a bright blue narwhal he had received for his birthday a few years ago. He sunk his face in its soft belly, wishing – not for the first time – to be less of a disappointment to his family. _“My head hurts.”_

_“It’s because you cried too much.”_ Kyungsoo was caressing his hair, trying to reassure him. _“I’ll bring you a glass of water.”_ He moved to get up, but Jongin stopped him by tightly grabbing the hem of his shirt in his small fist.

_“Stay with me, please.”_

And so Kyungsoo stayed. After a while, Jongin was finally able to explain to him what had happened without breaking down in tears. As he had expected, Kyungsoo was just as upset at the news as he was, Jongin could see it in his troubled eyes, but he pretended like it wasn’t a big deal, for Jongin’s sake.

_“Ah, Jongin, you really had me worried! It’s not like we won’t see each other anymore. We can play after school and on the weekends! And we’ll spend our Christmas and summer vacations together, right? As always.”_ He ruffled Jongin’s hair. _“Don’t worry about it.”_

Until that moment, Jongin had never looked at Kyungsoo as an older brother. He was his friend, his partner in crime, the one friend he had spent interminable days with, both in boredom and in excitement, the kind of days you can only experience in your childhood when the most pressing thought you have is how long will it be until summer arrives.

On that day, Jongin felt as if his childhood days had ended, and summer was a long way ahead.

_“Here,”_ Kyungsoo said, offering him a prettily decorated cardboard box, the kind they give you with a store-bought cake. _“I had thought about baking these for you on your birthday, but you were crying too much on the phone and I wanted to cheer you up, so I thought they might be more useful today rather than later.”_

Inside the box, a little army of bear-shaped chocolate cookies greeted Jongin with their sugar-coated smiles. They were all in different colors, the frosting colored blue, green, yellow and pink. They sported little black bowties and a row of buttons on their bellies. They weren’t perfect, some of them missing a button or two, their features a little lopsided, the frosting flown past the edges, but Jongin had never seen anything more precious in his life.

_“Did you—did you make them yourself, Kyungsoo?”_

_“I did! Do you like them?”_

Jongin sniffled. _“I do, they’re perfect.”_

_“Don’t start crying again, Jongin!”_

_“I won’t! I’m not a baby!”_ he yelled, surreptitiously wiping a few tears that had escaped nonetheless.

_“Come on, do you want to play Kingdom Hearts?”_

They spent all afternoon taking turns at playing that game, munching on the cookies Kyungsoo had baked. Despite being the first time Jongin experienced heartbreak in his young life, to this day that afternoon still remains one of his fondest memories. Maybe because, from that day on, the bond he shared with Kyungsoo only grew stronger. He really shouldn’t have been worried about losing his best friend: on that day, he earned a brother.

 

Closing the drawer, he decides to take a shower and go straight to bed. He has had a long day and he can’t wait for it to be over.

On the way to the bathroom, his eyes fall on Winston hovering at the bottom of his tank, fast asleep. His presence in Jongin’s life is one of comfort: he is a symbol of hope, of love and trust. He smiles, rethinking of how he ended up with his little familiar. And when he thinks about that time, it’s impossible not to think of his family too, and of his mother in particular.

It all started when he left childhood behind: when he was still young, until twelve years old or so, his mother seemed to have accepted her son’s lack of any strong magical ability and had made peace with herself and the situation. She still doted on him, in her own way, never having been the kind of person to show too much affection to her family except in certain circumstances, but her stance towards her son seemed to take a turn for the worse after he stepped into his teenage years.

Maybe it was because he came up lacking compared to his sisters, has always been the most subdued one, the one who, according to her, lacked in spirit and drive. His bright sisters, with their outstanding magical abilities, made all of his efforts seem like nothing. And so what was the point in a high grade in History or Literature when his sisters surpassed him in everything in his mother’s heart? Soon enough he stopped trying too hard, his grades dropped and Kyungsoo’s words of encouragement were worth nothing at all.

Jongin’s father had never shown much interest in magical matters, not being a witch himself. His wife’s influence on him, though, was very strong, so he tended to indulge her whims way too much. He wasn’t as cold to Jongin as his wife, but he had done nothing to change her attitude towards him, and that, to teenager Jongin, was a worse betrayal than the one he had received from his mother. 

 

The day his grandmother came to live with them brought a gust of fresh air in Jongin’s life. Before that moment, days had been dragging on and on, Jongin’s happiness hiding under the weight of his insecurities. He had just turned sixteen, an awkward beanpole of a boy, all dark thoughts and soft edges, hiding under a messy mop of hair; deceptively jaded and surly, he seemed to embody all the negative traits adults pin on adolescent boys. His brightness was still there, though, just protected, tucked away, shown only to those who deserved to bask in his light.

His grandmother hugged him tight on the day of her arrival: out of the entire family, she was the only one who had never made him feel out of place or different. They were similar, the two of them: they shared the same button nose, the love for old Hollywood movies, and, Jongin soon found out, the passion for plants, flowers, and herbs.

Finally able to spend more time with her grandson, Kang Haneul took it upon herself to start teaching him a few things about magic, as stubborn as she was: she believed that his magic was only a bit shy, just like him; it needed a little bit more time and care to shine brightly, like a flower that had to be coaxed out of the dark ground.

Since her magic got its energy from the Earth, she had worked all her life with plants and flowers, taking care of them in the big garden Jongin’s grandpa – who had died before Jongin was born – had planted for her as a marriage gift. Jongin still thinks to this day that moving from her old house to his parents’ one, where she didn’t have a garden to potter around in, had been more detrimental to her health than keeping living alone would have been, but, tenacious and headstrong, she didn’t hesitate a moment when she decided to teach him everything she knew about plants and their magical properties, despite Jongin’s initial refusal.

_“I don’t see what’s the point in this, Nana.”_

The leather gloves she had equipped him with were too small for his hands, he could barely feel his fingertips. Struggling to pull them off, he startled when he felt her small, wrinkled hand on his own, stopping him in his movements. A tingling sensation and the glove fit to perfection. He stretched his fingers while his grandmother took hold of his other hand, enlarging the other glove for him. With a pinch on his cheek – she had to yank him down by his shoulder to reach his face after his last grow-spurt – and a pat on his back, she encouraged him to sit at the kitchen table, right in front of the little terracotta vases she had prepared for the occasion.

The room was filled with the potent scent of the herbs she had brought with her moving in, tiny bundles of rosemary and lavender, pungent peppermint, sweet chamomile and sacred sage, tied together with weathered twine by those same, trembling hands that were now getting used to work in a home that wasn’t their own, in a house that had no garden.

_“There is a point in everything, Jongin. Now be a good boy and help your grandma with her plants.”_ She started unbundling them, separating the sterns from each other _. “Pick up that bag of soil and fill the vases with it, come on.”_

Sighing, Jongin did as she told him. _“Mom won’t be happy about the mess,”_ he said, looking with dismay at the trail of dark soil going from the former pristine floor to the wooden table.

_“Let me worry about your mother, I’ve known her for 46 years, I know how to handle her.”_

And so it was with a cheeky smile on her wrinkled face and an understanding glance that she started teaching him about plants.

_“You see these herbs and flowers? We need to plant them into these vases.”_

Confused, Jongin looked back and forth between the dried herbs and the pots. _“But… how are you supposed to plant something that’s already dead?”_

_“Ah, now, that is a good question, my child. You see, the answer is: you make them_ believe _to be alive.”_

 

His grandmother was right: magic is all about belief. Believing in yourself and in your element is crucial to becoming a good witch. Magical school is supposed to aid you in finding the element you can draw power from; unfortunately, Jongin has never been able to find his, despite trying time and time again.

Witches’ magic is based directly on one of the four components of the natural world – Earth, Fire, Air, and Water -, but there are also people who, rather than being solely attuned to one of the base elements, are a little bit more special than the average witch and can extract energy from other natural phenomena. That is the case of those witches whose element is Fire, but whose magic relies mostly on one of its sub-elements, like Lightning, or Light. Lightning witches are incredibly apt to tinker with electronic devices: case in point, Jongin’s sister enchanted her curling tongs to work on their own when she was barely thirteen. Earth witches, on the other hand, love working with plants and herbs and animals, and also make really good cooks, in Jongin’s experience.

Thus, since the first day she came to live with them, Jongin’s grandmother took it upon herself to teach him a few things about herbology: it was her area of expertise and she had always wished to have someone to hand down her knowledge to. But, alas, her daughter – Jongin’s mother – was a Fire witch, and there was nothing that plants hated more than Fire. His sisters had both taken from their mother – one being a Fire witch herself, the other a Lightning one -, but Jongin was like a white canvas.

Albeit reluctant at first, in the end, Jongin found comfort in his grandmother’s teaching. He had been scared of disappointing her too, the only member of his family who had never looked down on him, but she was so encouraging, so patient, so willing to spend time with him doing something she loved, something Jongin would learn to love too, that he wasn’t scared of making mistakes. Her confidence in his abilities helped him greatly: while still not able to perform big, showy spells, he learned, little by little, how to direct his magical energy.

The first time he made a seed sprout on its own he felt like a big weight was lifted from his heart. He was a witch, after all. Maybe not a powerful one, but a witch nonetheless. On that day he walked among clouds, his happiness overflowing. He called Kyungsoo over just to show him the tiny little plant he had managed to help grow.

The two of them were sitting on the windowsill in Jongin’s room, the little vase with the tiny sprout placed between them in the perfect location to snag the gentle sunlight of that April day, when they heard people shouting in the kitchen. At first, Jongin thought nothing of it, as used as he was to hear his sisters bickering with each other almost every day, but, after a few moments, he realized those were not his sisters’ voices.

Sharing a concerned look, Jongin and Kyungsoo tiptoed towards the door, opening it by a fraction: the kitchen was just down the corridor, and the argument could be heard clearly.

_“You’re filling his head with useless notions, Mom! You’re making him believe he is a real witch, while we both know that’s not the case! He should be concentrating on his school subjects, not experimenting with you at the kitchen table.”_

Jongin’s heart dropped at his mother’s words. He had been suspecting for a while that his mother didn’t like him spending so much time exercising his magical skills with his grandmother, but hearing her say it outright, hearing her yelling those words at his grandmother, the only person who seemed to still have faith in him, devasted him. Unable to bear Kyungsoo’s pitying look, he turned away from the door, harshly biting his lips in the desperate attempt to stop his tears from falling.

_“I may be old, but I’m not stupid, Jieun. There is potential in him, I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. His magic is there, just under the surface, it only needs some encouragement to burst through. Why can’t you believe in him? Why can’t you believe in your son?”_

_“We tried with him, Mom. He spent five long, useless years in that magical school without them being able to help him determine his element. He has never been able to do spells more complicated than those performed by a 3-years-old witch! Don’t turn me into a villain, Mom. We tried.”_

_“You pulled him out of school when he was eleven, Jieun! It’s not unheard of for a child to struggle with his magic!”_

_“For toddlers, Mom! Small children! What do you think I felt like pulling him out of school? I was crushed! But what was the point in him staying there while his schoolmates were taught more and more advanced spells and he was always the one left behind? I did it for him!”_

_“He just needed more time, Jieun. His magic is there, under the surface. It wasn’t his fault his teachers at that school weren’t able to help him find his source of power. As his mother, you should have moved him to another magical school, a better one, one that could help him. He needed guidance. He needed you not to give up on him.”_  

_“You’re being unfair, Mom, and I’m done talking to you. I don’t need to explain or justify mine and my husband’s decisions. Keep filling his head with useless knowledge, keep making him believe he can actually be a real witch and not just a sad excuse of one. Let’s see where it’ll take him.”_

Not even the front door slamming closed managed to startle Jongin out of his stupor, the sudden silence more suffocating than listening to his mother listing all his shortcoming.

Jongin felt a hand on his shoulder and Kyungsoo calling his name as from underwater, as if his ears were filled with cotton balls. His mind was recalling and scrutinizing everything his mother had said with that shrill voice of hers, words as sharp as poisoned daggers to his battered heart.

He felt Kyungsoo leaving his side and he realized that the warmth of his friend’s body beside his was the only thing that had kept him sane until then. And thus when silent tears started falling from his eyes not even a small sob left his mouth, his lips tightly closed over the sounds that his throat so desperately wanted to let out. Swallowing back his gasps, his trembling hands moved to dry his tears from his cheeks: his face felt like it was made of glass, ready to break at the smallest strike and to show to everyone what was inside, beneath his mask: a useless boy who was not good enough for even his mother to believe in him.

These ugly thoughts were circling around in his mind when a kind hand caressed his cheek and brought his head to rest on a bony, fragile shoulder, the scent of sweet chamomile filling his senses. He wasn’t able to stifle his sobs after that, all his frustration, his anger, his sadness melting in tears over his grandmother’s flowery dress.

 

Jongin will always remember his grandmother like this, with her white hair up in a bun, a long, flowery dress worn out at the hem, her nails dirty with soil. He will always remember her scent, made of a mixture of the hundreds of plants she had ever looked after in her life; he will always remember her love, her pure, genuine affection for him, her steadfast belief in his magical abilities, her willingness in sharing with him all her knowledge, allowing him to feel part of a world that had always shunned him.

That was the moment when he decided he would do whatever was in his power to take his license. He would do it for his grandmother, for himself, for the fire he had inside that refused to be smothered.

 

The next four years of Jongin’s life were spent quietly, working diligently on his studies – both magical and mundane. His grandmother passed away just after his eighteenth birthday on what would turn out to be the coldest day of the year. She went away in her sleep, as gently as she had lived.

Jongin and she had talked a lot the day before about his approaching high school graduation, about him wanting to try and get his witch license as soon as possible, about his fears for an unknown future, about their marigolds in bloom. She left him with a smile, a caress on his head, and the words _“you’re not alone, Jongin, remember that.”_

 

Summer came soon after that and brought with it Jongin’s graduation. Jongin had never seen his parents that happy: the son who hadn’t cared that much about his studies until a couple of years ago was now graduating at the top of his class.

But their happiness didn’t last long: just as he had told them time and time again, Jongin had no intentions of going to college, all he wanted to do was to keep pursuing his interest in herbology. Begrudgingly, they had to accept his decisions, allowing him to stay in their home until he was ready to move away. According to Jongin’s plan, that would have happened as soon as he got his license, but after two failures he decided to move out anyway and to rent out a small apartment with the savings he had scraped together selling his little charm bags on the Internet.

A couple of days before the moving day his sisters knocked on his bedroom door, surprising Jongin in the middle of packing his substantial collection of magical crystals.

_“Hey, stupidhead, finally getting out of here I see,”_ said Nari, the middle child, while Bom tackled him in one of her infamous hugs. _“Never thought I’d see this day coming.”_

Sticking out his tongue from the cage of his oldest sister’s arms, Jongin hid a smile behind the jasmine-scented curtain of Bom’s hair. He hadn’t seen them in a long while: he kind of missed them and their constant bickering. They were also pretty useful at diverting his mother’s attention from being too focused on Jongin.

_“Did you pack everything? I wish I could come with you and help you move into the new apartment but my boss didn’t agree on giving me a day off, I’m so sorry, Jonginnie,”_ said Bom, her pretty eyes looking up at him behind her messy bangs.

_“Oi, Bom, stop worrying about him, he’s old enough to manage on his own. And Mom and Dad will be with him, I’m sure she’ll want to take one last good look at his new home to better disapprove of it.”_ Nari threw them a cheeky smile over her shoulder, before her attention went back on the amulets she was tinkering with. Nari had always reminded Jongin of a cat: lazy, opinionated, and too curious for her own good.

_“Mom wants what’s best for us, you both know that,”_ Bom said lying down on Jongin’s bed, while he pried his precious tiger’s eye crystal from Nari’s hands before putting it back in its box.

_“Mom should learn to meddle less with her children’s business,”_ Nari singsonged, now rummaging inside the drawers of Jongin’s dresser.

_“Like you should stop meddling with your brother’s things, Nari, what the hell—”_ Jongin pushed her out of the way before closing the drawer with his hip, red in the face.

Cackling, his sister launched herself on his bed, barely missing hitting Bom in the face with her elbow. The two sisters started squabbling with each other, while Jongin looked on them almost fondly. Deciding that the improvised wrestling match had been going on long enough, he grabbed Bom by her foot and dragged her off Nari—and right onto the floor.

Back from their run at the grocery store, their parents found the two of them tussling on the floor like little kids while Nari refereed perched on the bed’s headboard. Sighing, they closed the bedroom’s door on them, yelling that dinner would be ready in half an hour and they better be ready by then, or _else_.

 

Dinner was a pleasant affair, Nari and Bom acting as a buffer between Jongin and his mother, who had cooked, for his last night in his childhood home, all his favorite dishes: bulgogi, samgyeopsal, sundubu-jjigae, naengmyeon, and an enormous quantity of side-dishes, enough to feed an army. Jongin suspected she had cooked so much stuff so that she could send his sisters home with a pile of leftovers.

_“Dad told me you’re gonna try for the exam again in a few days?”_

Raising his eyes from his bowl of noodles, Jongin nodded at Bom’s question, throwing a glance in his father’s direction. He hadn’t expected his father to be paying so much attention to his life, that was more his mother’s business. Maybe she had told him about it?

_“This is what? Your third time?”_ Bom’s words were muffled by her munching loudly on her portion of bulgogi. _“One would think you’d give up by now,”_ she snickered, shoveling more meat in her mouth, almost choking on it after Nari elbowed her on her side.

The loud clacking of a metal spoon inside an empty ceramic bowl startled all of them. _“Bom, that was uncalled for, apologize to your brother.”_

Jongin hadn’t reacted to Bom’s teasing, used as he was to her mean side that came out now and then; what he hadn’t expected was for his mother to come to his defense.

_“Mom, I was just…”_ Bom’s wide-eyed stare spoke volumes about how much she hadn’t expected their mother’s outburst either. _“I was just teasing him, I didn’t mean anything bad by it,”_ she justified herself.

_“You shouldn’t speak lightly of your brother’s struggles,”_ she harrumphed. _“He’s doing the best he can.”_

Jongin didn’t know how to feel about his mother’s words: on one hand, this was the first time she had ever bothered defending him – or telling something remotely nice about his ordeal. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure he liked the sound of those words: were they genuine or was she just trying to be condescending?

Dinner went by smoothly after that little pause; his sisters updated their parents on their lives – Nari had just gotten a promotion at work and Bom was dating a new guy, Jaehyuk or Jaehyun or something like that, Jongin had stopped paying attention to her boyfriends after the third one she had gone through in a month when she was seventeen -, their father graced their ears with his usual spiel against the local Witches Council and the representatives of the government, guilty of overworking him and his colleagues, who, as Internal Relations Officers, had, according to him, the worst job of all, having to mediate between a bunch of stubborn old farts and a bunch of stubborn old farts with _magic_ , while their mother rolled her eyes at him when he wasn’t looking, eliciting a fit of uncontrollable giggles from Nari and ugly snorts from Bom, who almost sprayed her noodles broth all over the front of her shirt. It was a nice evening, one that his family hadn’t had in a long time, and, for a while, Jongin was happy.

He went to bed feeling for the first time the bittersweet ache of leaving his childhood home behind. He didn’t regret his choice, but he would miss the familiarity of his home, of the rooms he knew like the back of his hand. He would miss his father’s gruff attempts of showing affection, and yes, he would also miss his mother, despite all their misunderstandings. He had seen her packing their dinner leftovers inside a few Tupperware boxes, labeling them in her clear handwriting, and placing them inside three jute bags, one for each of her children, much to Jongin’s surprise. And when had those wrinkles appeared on her face? When had her hair started turning gray?

Heart in his throat, he thought that maybe the time had arrived to try and fix things between them, to build a bridge instead of keeping burning them.

He clambered out of bed, the sheets almost tripping him in his haste, and sat down at the little desk under the window, its surface ruined by scratches and burn marks, and rummaged inside one of the two drawers, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. After frantically looking around for a functioning pen – in the end, he had to steal one from his father’s stash -, he sat back down and wrote a letter to his mother.

 

_Mom,_

_the past few years haven’t been very kind to us, have they?_

_We have fought so much that I can barely remember a time when the two of us could sit down and talk without recriminations on both parts. I won’t hide that, in the past, I’ve often thought about how unfair you were to me, how little you seemed to care about my struggles._

_You’ve told me time and time again that you thought I was making a mistake keeping pursuing my dream of becoming a witch deserving of this name. But don’t you think that I, more than others, deserve to see this dream come true? For other people it’s so easy to pass the exam and get their license, they don’t seem to struggle at all with it. But think about it, where is the dedication in that? To them, magic is as natural as breathing; to me, it’s as hard as it is for a fish to fly. I understand now that you had my best interests at heart, that you were worried for me, that with what you did and what you said, you were clumsily attempting to protect me from what I wanted. But please, don’t worry about me. I’ve chosen to go down this road no matter how hard it will be and I’ve chosen it with a calm and sure heart._

_I’m sorry that you can’t brag about me with your friends as you do with Bom and Nari. Believe me, I wish you could, I wish I was more similar to my sisters, so beautiful and bright and full of life. But as Nana always said to me, I just need a little more time, a little more care, and I will shine as brightly as them one day._

_Now that I’m leaving you and Dad, please, think a little bit more about yourself, for your children are not children anymore. Go on vacation with Dad, you’ve been talking about going to Bali since forever! Please, do that, have fun, relax, do all the things you weren’t able to do while taking care of three kids._

_I’m sorry for all the times we didn’t understand each other, I’m sorry for the times I shut my bedroom door in your face, I’m sorry for the long silences, for the words said in anger, and for the tears. I’m sure we both spilled enough tears to last us a lifetime._

_Will you forgive me, Mom? I’ve decided to forgive you._

_Please, don’t be sad, or angry, or worried for me anymore. I’m fine, and I will be happy too, just give me a little more time._

_I love you, sorry for not telling you more often._

_Jongin_

 

The next day, Jongin left the only home he had known for the first twenty years of his life. He left a crumpled piece of paper on the kitchen table under a little pot of yellow daffodils.

On the first morning in his new home, a knock at his door announced that forgiveness had been received and granted in return. His mother stood on the threshold, misty-eyed. And when Jongin let her in with a surprised smile on his face, the hug she gave him was the most long-awaited one of his life.

They talked a lot that day, as they had never done before; and, after that, his mother brought him to find the one that would be his faithful companion for the rest of his life.

A soft-spoken spell – one that would usually be cast by the witch seeking their own companion - led him and his mother all the way on the other side of the city, inside a pet shop. There, bubbling away his life together with countless of his siblings inside a huge tank, swam little Winston, pink-colored magic coating his scales.

His mother explained to him after seeing his shocked expression after finding his familiar – a fish! His familiar was a fish! – inside a shop called Happy Paws Pet Store that, nowadays, it wasn’t so unheard of for witches to find their familiars inside pet shops: it was way more convenient like this, rather then fishing them out of lakes or driving them out of their burrows, even if the excitement of the chase was a bit lost.

Jongin broke down in tears once his little fish was placed in his hands inside his small bowl: in the past few years, he had been trying without success to convince his magic to lead him to his familiar. That his mother had been the one to decide to help him, that she had decided to trust his words when he told her his magic was there and it just needed a little bit of care to shine, meant the world to him.

She had given him new hope: a familiar’s guidance was essential to witches, a way to conduct their magical energy, and Winston would surely prove essential to Jongin’s improvement.

And thus it was: in the next few days Jongin didn’t suddenly start casting spells he had never been able to before, but he could notice a new, distinct flavor to his magic as if it was now more attuned to him, less volatile. He started exercising it like crazy: day after day, his little friend watched him with his attentive, bulbous eyes from his place upon the coffee table, and Jongin’s magic seemed to actually respond to his efforts. Jongin had never felt happier.

When, despite his little friend’s help, his third attempt at passing his exam fruitlessly came and went like the two before it, he felt an initial disappointment and shed a few tears, but he didn’t give up: now that he had the support of his family, he felt like he could overcome any obstacle he found in his way.

 

Finally in bed, he lies down staring at the clear night sky he can see from his window, counting down the minutes until midnight. On the hour, he hears Chanyeol’s front door opening and closing, his footsteps moving away down the corridor. Jongin sighs, snuggling down under his comforter; the last thing he remembers before falling asleep is the light of the stars shining down on him and the sound of Chanyeol’s car sputtering down the road, taking him away from home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter means a lot to me, and I struggled quite a bit writing it. It feels really personal, and it while being quite angsty I think that it also speaks of love! Let me know what you think of it :)  
> I can safely say that the story won't get more angsty than this! The sun is shining bright on the horizon eheh Also sorry for the lack of Chanyeol in this chapter, I promise we'll see more of him in the next one!
> 
> I want to thank my beta and my friends M and J for always being so supportive, caring, and amazing. I love you lots.
> 
> If you want to talk and keep up with any update you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/awjonginnie) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/awjonginnie) :)


	4. Chapter Three

“ _What’s the worst that could happen?”_

The next morning, the words Kyungsoo pronounced with such levity circle in Jongin’s mind like a flock of vultures upon unsuspecting prey.

What was the worst that could happen, he had asked. Jongin already went through some possible scenarios the evening before, but they keep coming back to the forefront of his mind, over and over again, while he cleans up the mess in his living room.

Jongin is scared. Scared of his feelings, scared of a possible refusal. Would Chanyeol still talk to him after his confession? Thinking about it, he would probably still be the same kind, considerate Chanyeol, and that would be worse than a slap in the face: it would mean that Jongin would never find in himself the strength to dislike him, not even a little.

Living on the same floor doesn’t help, either, even though Jongin has become quite apt at avoiding the other when he doesn’t want to be seen – apart from those two or three times Chanyeol has actually knocked at his door looking for him. There is no way of avoiding him then.

Jongin surveils his now – mostly – clean living room and then sits down to work on a couple of new orders; he hasn’t even bothered changing into actual clothes and is puttering around in his pajamas, the soft fabric a comfort for his troubled mind.

He has never had a real, proper relationship – a few dates with some boys from school don’t really count -, and his mind pulls up blank when he thinks about ways of confessing his feelings to another person. Would Chanyeol like a big, showy confession, or something more subdued, softer, something more in Jongin’s style?

He slaps his hand against his forehead. Why is he even considering it? He has no intention of ever confessing his crush to Chanyeol, right?

“Jongin, you are an idiot,” he tells himself before getting up from his chair to start looking for a book in his messy bookshelf, slightly crooked under the weight of so many tomes. And there it is, right where he thought it would be; “ _Illusions & Rules of Manifestation_” is its title. The spine is a bit broken, the pages well-loved. It gives off a musty smell, an indicator of just how old the book actually is.

Jongin brings it under the light of the early morning sun; the speckles of dust floating in the air make him sneeze.

It’s one of his favorite books, but he hasn’t touched it in a while. Not since he added the nice window in his kitchen and magicked the old chest he keeps in his room.

There is a spell in the book he hasn’t tried yet, thinking it not that useful for his purposes. He has never been a witch interested in the sky or in the way the stars influence people’s lives. Astrology is just nonsense anyway, and science has never been his forte. Now, give him a plant, some fresh soil, and he will be the happiest little witch in the world. But he really can’t do science, and, on top of that, every time he, for whatever reason, tries to think too much about space, and stars, and planets spinning around millions of miles away from Earth... well, his head starts spinning too and he has to distract himself from such ponderings.

Despite all this, he is willing to metaphorically mess with the celestial bodies for the sake of a certain curly-haired boy. Because Chanyeol loves the stars, and Jongin is going to give them to him.

  
  


The Plan – in his head Jongin thinks about it in capital letters, to better stress its importance – is apparently quite simple: Chanyeol’s birthday is coming up, and Jongin wants to take advantage of this important date to show him his love without actually having to say it out loud. He will gift to him the most vivid dream of his life: a walk amongst the stars without leaving the comfort of his warm bed.

Truthfully, considering what Jongin is planning, Chanyeol won’t even realize that he is the one behind it, but Jongin doesn’t mind; rather, he prefers it this way. He just wants to do something nice for Chanyeol, something different than usual, something _magical_ , and then, maybe, he will find the courage to confess, knowing that, if he is turned down, at least he left Chanyeol with one last goodbye gift (Jongin is getting quite overdramatic over the entire situation, he knows it, but Kyungsoo isn’t there to reprimand him so he can be as tragic as he wants, thank you very much).

He has a few days to prepare everything he needs, and he starts by studying to perfection the spell he will need to perform; the incantation itself is not particularly challenging, but Jongin’s magic needs a bit more time to accept spells he hasn’t tried before – and isn’t this a monumentally stupid idea, to base everything upon an enchantment his magic hasn’t had the opportunity to acquaint itself to yet -, so he needs to go over it several times, Winston at his side, lighted candles floating all around him to create the right atmosphere, because his fickle magic needs to get in the mood, it needs to be _seduced_ , convinced of doing what Jongin wants it to. He lights some incense, and keeps a few of his gemstones in a wooden bowl near him: azurite, for learning, carnelian, for confidence, and rose quartz, for love.

He falls into a trance-like state, the sharp, cloying scent of the incense filling his nostrils, getting to his head. He doesn’t realize how much time he spends like this, sitting cross-legged on the ground, muttering without respite the words that make up the enchantment; he doesn’t feel hunger nor thirst, nor does he hear the icy rain pelting against his window.

The concerned eyes of his familiar never stray too far from him, Winston’s magic tinting the water of his tank of a pinkish hue; the little fish wishes, in his heart, to help Jongin, and that is enough, that is _everything_ : a familiar’s magic should never be underestimated, for sheer intentions have the power to determine outcomes, and even a creature as small as Winston contains in himself enough magic to spark a fire. Winston watches, and wishes, and his magic does the rest: Jongin stops frowning and exhales in relief. The pressure in his chest loosens, the air feels less thick.

A sudden gust of wind and the flames of the candles are put out; the crystals chink in their wooden bowl.

Jongin smiles and opens his eyes.

“Got it.”

  
  


The second stage of Jongin’s Master Plan – he decides that a name upgrade is in order because of the amount of work he’s putting into this – consists of reading up about anything and everything he can find about stars, planets, and constellations. He throws in a couple of books about astrology too, just to be absolutely certain that he is covering everything.

For three days straight he catches the early afternoon bus to the downtown library and stays there until closing time, pouring over any book he can find on the subject. When he feels like he has learned – or, at least, skimmed through – everything he needs, the only thing left to do is to decide upon the right time to launch his spell.

For one split second, Jongin thinks about putting a washed-up version of a surveillance spell on Chanyeol, but he quickly rejects that idea as incredibly creepy and stalkerish. He has to hope that Chanyeol’s sleeping habits are pretty consistent and still reflect what he remembers from that one time he had – inadvertently - woken him up, asking him if he could get rid of a huge spider that had taken residence inside one of his bathroom cabinets; that was before he came to understand that the little white car he sometimes saw sputtering down the road in the middle of the night was Chanyeol’s, and that he used it to go to work every night at the factory district. Jongin doesn’t know what Chanyeol does there; all he knows is that he doesn’t seem to enjoy working there too much, and he can understand why: Chanyeol is vibrancy, joy, color. To think of him cooped up inside a factory all night, probably performing the same tasks over and over again, breaks Jongin’s heart. This is one of the reasons why he has chosen to do something special for him, a small thing that he hopes will help him smile a little bit more.

Jongin knows how much Chanyeol loves the stars because one night, on a weekend a few months ago, he surprised him outside, sitting on a plastic chair placed on the little patch of dried grass that the bravest among the residents called _flowerbed_ , with his nose pointed upwards, his eyes full of the light reflected by the moon.

Chanyeol smiled sheepishly at him, a tad bit awkward, a tad bit embarrassed at having been caught sitting there like a moron, watching the night sky while people their age were probably having fun in a club.

But Jongin found it charming, like everything Chanyeol did, and, feeling particularly brave, he asked him if he could sit there with him for a while. Chanyeol’s smile had been blinding. So Jongin rushed up the stairs, grabbed one of his rickety chairs and brought it downstairs, placing it right beside Chanyeol’s.

They spent a few hours like that, and those had been the best hours of Jongin’s life.

“Do you have a favorite constellation?” Chanyeol asked him, and Jongin shyly answered that he had never watched the stars with so much attention before; but he shouldn’t have worried, because Chanyeol showed him his favorite ones, telling him stories of Greek heroes and the ferocious beasts they fought.

The night was warm, the company amazing, and, before Jongin knew it, it was dawn; Chanyeol apologized over and over again for keeping him up all night with his stories, a delightful blush coloring his cheeks, but Jongin assured him that he had enjoyed the time they had spent together. Chanyeol beamed at his words, and a thousand fluttering butterflies took flight in Jongin’s tummy.

Before going back to their own apartments, Chanyeol confided to him that that had been the first time he had watched the stars with someone, and would Jongin mind doing it again sometime? Jongin nodded, enthusiastic, already anticipating their next meeting under the night sky.

Alas, that next meeting hasn’t arrived yet: the nights getting colder might be the reason why, but Jongin suspects that Chanyeol’s mood might also have had something to do with it. Jongin has noticed a cloud of sadness surrounding the other man; it is more than just a feeling: he has seen the dark circles under Chanyeol’s eyes, his pensiveness, his dimmed smiles, and that’s why, when Chanyeol knocked at his door the other day, he had been so mad at himself for not being able to welcome him as he would have wanted.

All of this, combined with a rather selfish desire to somehow leave a mark on Chanyeol’s memories, led Jongin to formulate the plan he is know putting in action.

  
  


On the Midnight of the 27 th  of November, Jongin starts the preparations for his spell. It is a cold night, and a moonless one at that, which is not ideal, but Jongin will have to make do.

He prepares a cleansing bath: he cleans his bathtub carefully, with vinegar and essential oils, and places on the edge of the tub a few of his favorite crystals, and a couple of white candles. He dims the lights and puts on some music he can relax to. While the water is running and filling the bathtub, he takes off his clothes, the flickering lights of the candles’ flames playing with the curves of his body, lighting in a warm hue the pink gladiolus he has tattooed on his left forearm. He tickles it with his fingers and then grasps his forearm as if taking strength from the image engraved on his skin.

The mirror above the sink is fogged, having the warm steam rising from the water now completely saturated the small room. He should open the window a tiny bit, let the water droplets be dispersed by the cold air coming in from outside, but he doesn’t like the cold, and he wishes to be cocooned in warmth for as long as he can.

He turns off the faucet, the bathtub now halfway full, and gracefully steps into it, immersing himself completely. He opens his eyes while underwater, and lets himself be lulled into a state of deep relaxation, speckles of dried flowers’ petals floating on the water above him.

When he comes up for air, pink hair plastered on his forehead, he pours some bath salts in the water, the scent of lavender suffusing his senses. He lays his head against the edge of the tub, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, his spirit at rest.

He spends a long time in the water - long enough for his fingers and toes to turn pruney - meditating, visualizing the spell he will perform in a few hours. He needs focus, concentration, he needs his mind to be completely void of other matters, of anything that could distract him from his goal.

He steps out when he feels ready, the water long gone cold, but he doesn’t feel it: his mind is in complete control of his body, which is only a vessel for his spirit. He wraps himself up in a bathrobe and drains the tube, observing the water swirling down the drain, taking with it any ill feelings he might have harbored. He blows out the candles, cleans the tub of the remaining flowers’ petals stuck to the bottom, and then leaves the bathroom, the wet imprints of his feet marking his way.

He dresses up in comfortable clothes, and then he is back in his living room. He moved the couch before bathing, and rolled up the rug, propping it up against the wall. Now there is a small, free space right at the center of his home; here the wooden floorboards show less sign of use, their surface smoother, shinier, only marred by the objects he left there some time ago.

He picks up a piece of white chalk and traces a circle with it, placing himself at its center. He can feel his magic thrumming - hungry, excited, _alive_ -, he can feel it beating against his ribcage, awoken by the ritual he just performed.

Jongin hasn’t realized it yet, but there is something different about his magic tonight, something _wilder_ , a power he hasn’t tapped into yet as if his magic is recognizing in him something he didn’t know he possessed.

When the circle is complete, Jongin is ready to begin; he kneels on the floor and opens up his spellbook to the right page marked by a green ribbon. He lights up three white candles placed at the top and the sides of the book to form a triangle.

The mugwort he carefully picked in his garden for its ability to stimulate dreams is fashioned into a smudge stick, the twigs tightly tied together by a piece of twine; he hovers it over one of the candles and waits for it to catch fire. After a few seconds, he extinguishes the flame, letting the smoke billow from the stick. The blue ceramic bowl he set aside is now brought forth, for it will be used to contain the smoking smudge stick while the spell is chanted.

He inhales deeply, collecting his magical energy. Finally, he starts chanting, carefully following the words written in messy calligraphy upon the parchment pages of the book. The ink is smudged in some places, but the handwriting is still legible enough.

It doesn’t take too long for Jongin to finish chanting the spell, a minute or two at the most. He is feeling a bit nauseous, cloyed by the heady smell of the burning mugwort, and tired, his energy rapidly diminishing, so he wants to finish as quickly as possible.

The last step of the process is the one he dislikes the most, for it is the most delicate and the one he gets more easily wrong: he needs to break the circle, and in order to do so, it is forbidden to smudge it by hand. He needs to concentrate one last time, to visualize in his mind the circle being broken by a curt movement of his hand.

His furrowed brow and the sweat falling along his hairline betray how much this gesture, which requires a not so little amount of precision and control over one’s magic, takes out of him. Finally, it is with one last murmured word that the circle is broken to perfection.

Gasping as if he's breathing for the first time after a long time spent underwater, Jongin feels utterly exhausted. He didn’t imagine that such a simple spell could require this amount of energy to be performed; he has done something similar things in the past, and never had it felt the same. He wonders if he is coming down with something.

Nevertheless, the spell is done. He blows out the candles and leaves everything on the floor to be dealt with on the next day. He then staggers to his bedroom and falls face-first on the bed. He is out in seconds.

  
  


  
  


Chanyeol comes back home at around eight in the morning. His shift was uneventful, and thank God for that. He had no intention of dealing with problems right on the day of his twenty-fifth birthday.

He parks his car a bit haphazardly, but the parking lot is as empty as always at this hour of the morning: all his neighbors are at work or school, so no one is there to reprimand him.

Well, all his neighbors but one.

Thinking about Jongin is enough to put a smile on his face. He hasn’t seen him for a few days and he misses him terribly. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he has _no rights_ , but it’s something beyond Chanyeol’s control: ever since that night spent together watching the stars, Chanyeol hasn't looked at the other boy the same way.

That night Jongin came to him as gentle as falling snow, and he hasn’t left Chanyeol’s heart since.

On the way to the front door of the building, he passes by the barren flowerbed they sat on that night and he can still see, with his inner eye, the sweet, sleepy smiles Jongin regaled him with. Something in Chanyeol changed on that night: for the first time in a long while he felt seen, understood; he felt _whole_.

When Chanyeol was first offered his job at the factory, he hadn’t thought much about anything but accepting it: the pay was good, and - as a struggling musician - he learned pretty early on not to be too picky; his dream was taking him nowhere and there were bills to pay. For a boy with no other qualifications than a high school diploma, it was a chance he could not refuse.

As he is wont to do, he had fallen headlong into his new job without reflecting on what working during the night might mean for his social life. The first few days had been hard to get used to, and that was why he had not been able to spend much time with his family or friends, but he had told himself things would change once he’d get the hang of it. He couldn’t have been more mistaken: while his body got used quickly enough to the new rhythm, his mood deteriorated just as fast.

And then it happened: he met someone on a hot summer’s day, a boy so lovely and kind like the ones told in old stories.

There isn’t in the entire world a boy as achingly beautiful as him.

With a spring in his steps and a small happiness in his heart, Chanyeol hurries up to his apartment; he needs food and sleep, and after he has done that, maybe he will finally find the courage to knock on Jongin’s door and ask him out. It _is_ his birthday, after all.

  
  


Jongin is woken up by someone pounding on his door.

He doesn’t realize at first what woke him up, but the pounding continues and it seems to follow the rhythm of Jongin’s headache.

He must have felt cold during his sleep because he is now completely wrapped in his sheets, even though he doesn’t remember waking up to cover himself.

It’s with a quick glance at his alarm clock – “Only 9:11 am,” he grumbles - that he gets up, before tripping on the slippers he had carelessly chucked out the last time he wore them and falling butt-first on the ground.

“Ow.”

He feels like his brain got scrambled up inside his skull. It’s not a nice feeling.

The pounding doesn’t stop.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he mutters, getting up with some effort. The room seems to be spinning around him. Or is he the one spinning? And why is it so dark?

Someone has started hollering his name.

He shuffles through his living room, almost tripping once again over the remains of last night’s spell.

He doesn’t notice Winston circling dizzily around his tank, his small, bulbous eyes filled with panic; he doesn’t understand that the reason why he feels so dizzy himself, the reason why everything seems to be spinning around him, is that the house itself is rattled by vibrations similar to those of a car engine hasting its way along a rutty road.

“Jongin!”

On that last yell, he opens the door.

  
  


Chanyeol never made it to his bed before his world turned upside down. Falling in a heap on the ground, the house seemed to shake around him, the small knickknacks he had scattered among his shelves plummeting to their death, while the window in his bedroom trembled loudly, the glass tinkling against its frame.

Chanyeol never before experienced something like that.

Frozen in fear, he stayed on the ground, his left elbow – the one he had hit against the nightstand – throbbing painfully.

As suddenly as it had started, the shaking stopped.

No, not stopped. It lowered its frequency. It was barely noticeable, but it was still there.

Confused and incapable of understanding what was going on, Chanyeol was hesitant at the thought of getting up and checking it out for himself. Just then, he realized how dark the room had become; the suffused lighting gave the room an eerie atmosphere, with long shadows stretched along the wooden floor and the white walls.

Everything was silent.

Chanyeol couldn’t hear the rumbling cars on the busy intersection, nor the birds chirping outside. All he could hear… all he could hear was silence.

A silence so encompassing it rustled in his ears, like static from an old television.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Chanyeol got up. Gingerly, for he didn’t want to make any sound. He didn’t want to be heard. By what, he himself couldn’t tell.

He turned towards the window, hoping to find there an answer to what had happened in the last couple of minutes. What he saw instead made his blood run cold: stretching as far as the eyes could see was the vast expanse of the Milky Way, moving past the frame of Chanyeol’s window.

But, no, stars did not move, Chanyeol thought hysterically. It was the building, cradled by space winds, to move, oscillating faintly under his feet.

Chanyeol hurried to the window and plastered his nose against the cold glass, his breath fogging it up a bit. He cleaned it frantically with his sleeve, his eyes wide open in wonder. It had to be a dream, there was no other logical explanation.

“Chanyeol, what you are looking at is only the inside of your eyelids, okay? Just the inside…” he gulped, “of your-… Is that…?”

The building had turned on its axis just enough for Chanyeol to be greeted by the sight of Saturn, its rings circling the enormous mass of the far-away planet just like he had seen in hundreds of books.

He pinched his arm as hard as he could.

“Fuck!”

The planet was still there.

Was Chanyeol not dreaming after all? He couldn’t wrap his mind around what he was seeing, around the impossibility of it all. And yet, the coldness he felt seeping into his bones, the nausea in the pit of his stomach, the frantic beating of his heart told a different story: what he was seeing, what he was feeling, was the reality, as impossible as it sounded. No dream could feel this real, no dream had ever filled him with such deep-rooted fear.

No dream had ever caused in him this great astonishment.

As he stood in front of his window, endless stars winking back at him from their spot in the night sky, he thought, once again, to that time spent with Jongin watching them from a very different point of view. He thought of all the stories he had told him, he thought of little Chanyeol who wished so badly to become an astronaut, to walk among the stars and snatch one to bring back home to his mom, a trophy after his cosmic quest.

With the thought of Jongin crossing his mind once again, panic took hold of his heart: what if Jongin was hurt? He had to be at home around the time everything happened. What if he was scared, or he had fallen and hit his head?

With one last longing glance, he left his room in a hurry, rushing towards Jongin’s apartment. He started pounding on his door, the sight of the cheerful welcoming mat almost clashing with the gravity of the situation.

After a solid three minutes of pounding and shouting his name – with Chanyeol already concocting in his mind tragic scenarios of what could have befallen Jongin - the door finally opened, and Jongin greeted him with a sleepy smile and pillow creases all over his cheeks.

  
  


Being abruptly woken up from sleep isn’t so bad if the one doing it is him, Jongin thinks, as his eyes take in the sight of his handsome neighbor standing at his door, looking disheveled.

Before Jongin can ask him if is everything alright, Chanyeol lunges and grabs his hand, holding it tightly in his own clammy one. There is a kind of manic look in his eyes, energy pouring out of him so strongly Jongin can clearly perceive it.

Chanyeol pushes him back into his apartment, closing the door behind them. With his free hand, he cups Jongin’s cheek and scrutinizes his face, nodding once satisfied with what he sees.

“Chanyeol…”

“Jongin, don’t freak out, but we might have a problem.”

But Jongin _is_ now freaking out because he suddenly remembered his impossible window, and the mess he left in his living room the night before, and is Chanyeol’s touch really enough to make him totally forget about his secret, about the secrecy he has to maintain?

But before he can answer to that question, Chanyeol is gently turning his head towards his living room’s window, and at first, Jongin doesn’t understand what he is supposed to be looking at, because all he can see is the night sky and a cluster of stars, but then he remembers what time it is and that it shouldn’t be so dark outside at this hour, he realizes that he is not supposed to be able to see that many stars and he is surely not supposed to be able to see Saturn’s rings from his living room window.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, “what have I done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait! I hope you'll like this new chapter :)  
> For questions, updates, daily posts about how much I love these boys you can find me on Twitter @ [awjonginnie](https://twitter.com/awjonginnie)
> 
> As always, many thanks to my beta, my writing wouldn't be half as good without her!
> 
> In the language of flowers the gladiolus symbolizes strenght of character, faithfulness, sincerity and integrity, honor.


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